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Throw songs in dry sand
or fight  mount Washington.
Image a parrot’s tongue and
fingers leaf five at once:
that’s at least four lost
and there’s no saliva

at all

the corridor tiles a chair
wheels a common nut
to the local john
one hand over the above
since he’s naked.
Saliva? On the verge.

A sig outside.

Where’s the paper?
No notes nor lyrics
yet they sing omm as I
see the inhaled yard
to climb the stairs again.

Yet there’s a sink in my room,

pencils and what’s on the news
or draw another face
mask on your life
dreams which are guessed
and where I’ll be long

for sure.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2009

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